This is day 24 of @mydivathings's #365daysofwriting challenge. Every day she invites you to write a short story based on the image she chooses. Today's image (below) is a
Photo by Menglong Bao on Unsplash
Find out more about the challenge (you can join anytime!) here @mydivathings/day-27-365-days-of-writing-challenge
This story is part eight of a longer story. You can read this part as a standalone piece or you can read part one here: @felt.buzz/reunion-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge
and part two here: @felt.buzz/reunion-part-2-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge
and part three here: @felt.buzz/reunion-part-3-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge
and part four here: @felt.buzz/reunion-part-4-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge
and part five here: @felt.buzz/reunion-part-5-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge
and part six here: @felt.buzz/reunion-part-6-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge
And part seven here: @felt.buzz/reunion-part-7-an-original-work-of-fiction-for-the-365daysofwriting-challenge
Al says he needs a piss - well, he actually says he's going to the bathroom, but Mitch assumes he's not actually going to take a bath - so Mitch takes the opportunity to go outside for a cigarette.
Bathroom. Since when has Al taken to speak fucking American? What’s wrong with the Queen’s English? Toilet, bog, shithouse, loo. Bathroom? For fucks sake.
It has stopped raining, thank fuck. He inhales deeply, and looks for his reflection in the puddle in the pavement below. Al would probably call it a fucking sidewalk. He looks at the shimmering image in the water. Does it show, he wonders?
He looks up and, through the window, sees Al stroll back to their table. He looks around, first at the bar, then at the other punters, before looking out the window. Mitch raises his hand, but realises Al can't see him. It's too dark.
He flicks the cigarette into the puddle, it sinks with a sizzle, and Mitch goes back inside. Al’s face lights up. He thought I'd done a runner.
“Enough about me,” Al says. “Tell me what you've been up to.”
“Oh, you know…” you really do know, well, you think you fucking do. I know you've been watching me, just like I've been watching you, little brother. “Aside from work, not much to report.” Mitch watches Al relax into his chair, and then drops it. “Apart from the fucking cancer, of course.”
Al straightens up, and that fucking smile falls off his face so quickly you can almost hear it smash as it hits the fucking floor.
“Cancer?” he says, his face crumpled with concern.
“Started in the prostate,” Mitch says. “I had symptoms, but Afternored them, obviously. Needing to piss all the fucking time, not being able to. And, of course, I was supposedly too fucking young to get it anyway.“
“Fuck,” says Al. “But you’ll be… they can treat it, right?”
“Oh, yes,” says Mitch, smiling. “If you catch it early enough, it's treatable. Some unpleasant side effects…”
“Thank God,” says Al.
“Unless, it spreads, of course,” Mitch says.“Metastasize, they call it. Secondaries. Spreads to other organs.”
“Oh,” says Al.
“Oh, indeed,” says Mitch. “It's in my bones, my liver. It's fucking all over.”
“Shit… I'm sorry.”
“Not half as sorry as I am, little brother. Not half as sorry, as I am.”
Mitch takes a swig of his beer. Al is watching him, closely.
“You need to get tested, Al,’ Mitch says, slowly. “Dad died at forty nine, we were too young to know what of. Mamie never said. Anyway, it looks like it might be hereditary,” he put the bottle down. “It's too late for Dad. It's too late for me. But, maybe, it's not too late for you.”
Al sits back in his chair, colour draining from his face.
“I killed one brother,” Mich says. “Perhaps I can help save the other.”
“Oh God, Mitch,” Al says. “I don't know what to say.”
Thank you,” Mitch says, smiling. “You can start by fucking thanking me.”
“Thanks,” Al says, visibly shaking.
“Your welcome, Al. After all, what are brothers for?”
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